


Wise Beyond Their Years

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bullying, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they meet, Sherlock is 8 and John is 10.  There's no reason for John to help the boy with a bloody nose and black eye.  Except there's never a good reason for a child to have a bloody nose and black eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wise Beyond Their Years

**Author's Note:**

> My gift for my Sherlock Secret Santa, Syupon.
> 
> Many thanks to Batik for being my beta.

The first time they meet, Sherlock is 8 and wise beyond his years.  He’s all legs and arms, tall for his age.  He is already known for his intelligence and sharp tongue.  The friends he’s tried to make have all hurt and shunned him.  He trusts no one, except possibly Mycroft, but he’s beginning to question even that.   He lashes out at the idiots of the world, because he has no other way to cope with the deep hurt that lives inside him.  It aches and he’s almost sure there’s some unknown organ inside him that science hasn’t found yet that is sick and needs healing.

 

John is 10.  He looks like the average 10-year-old, but there’s something older in his cornflower blue eyes.  A wisdom exists that shouldn’t already be there.  He smiles and laughs with the other children his age, plays all the usual games, but winces sometimes at the contact.  No one notices because he has learned to hide it so well.  He guards his secrets with a fierce passion, because he is not a weak child nor does he want to be perceived as one.

 

Sherlock is dodging through the alleys and hiding behind trash bins.  He’d snuck out to avoid some social gathering that his parents had wanted him to attend and play the dutiful, quiet child.  That was a role better suited to Mycroft, so he’d shimmied down the large tree outside his window and went off in search of adventure.  He found one, but not the sort he’d hoped for.  He had managed to run into Billy.  The same Billy he’d told earlier in the day that Santa Claus didn’t exist and he was an idiot for believing in something so childish.  Billy who was shocked that his parents would lie to him.  And Billy who held a grudge, because, of course, his parents told him Santa was real when he confronted them with what Sherlock had said.  And therefore, Sherlock must be taught a lesson about calling someone’s parents liars.  It took Sherlock giving Billy a swift kick between his legs before Billy let him go.  Unfortunately, Billy had already landed punches that had managed to knock the wind out of Sherlock,  blacken his eye and give him a bloody nose.  So Sherlock kicked the bully hard before he ran, and this is where the moment happens.

 

He’s too busy looking behind him to see the older boy in front of him.  He runs smack into the boy, knocking them both onto the ground.  He expects to hear an angry “Watch where you’re going, you moron!” instead he hears a concerned “Are you okay?”  It shocks him enough that he’s momentarily speechless.  People normally aren’t nice when you knock them over in the street.  Just then there is a shout from around the corner.  Apparently Billy has recovered and recruited a few friends in his search.  Sherlock’s head jerks around at the sound.

  
John gathers himself and pulls Sherlock up by the arm.  “Hide here!”  he says, as he shoves Sherlock between two bins and places himself in front of them.  He picks up a lid and takes out a bag, making it look as if he’s just taking out the trash.  Billy and his crew round the corner huffing.

 

“Oi! You!” Billy shouts at John.  

  
John turns, “Yeah?”

  
“You seen a scraggly kid run by? Coward kicked me in the nuts and took off.”  Billy huffs, out of breath.

 

“Yeah, I did,” John smiles conspiratorially and Sherlock tenses.  Is the boy about to betray him?  He crouches, ready to spring down the alley, but relaxes when he hears, “He went down and around the corner to the left.  Good luck catching the wanker.”

  
The ragtag group takes off in the direction John pointed.  Sherlock raises his head and sees there is a set of footprints the boys are following.  John is shaking his head as he watches them go.  “Idiots,” John mumbles, “They can’t tell those are mine coming from that direction?”  He turns back to face Sherlock, who is still cautiously watching the group around the corner.  “I’m John, John Watson, by the way.  And you never did answer my question.  Are you okay?”  Sherlock whips his head around, curls bouncing around his face, and John is startled by the stark ice-blue eyes that lock onto him.  They pierce his soul and he knows he will never forget those eyes.

  
“I’m fine.  I appreciate what you did there.  That was quite smart, but then it doesn’t take much to outwit Billy and his crew.  They’re all ordinary and stupid is too nice a word for them.” Sherlock pulls himself up to his full height.  John is older but Sherlock is tall for his age and can look him in the eyes.  Sherlock usually wins staring contests, but John isn’t one to back down and, oddly enough, Sherlock realizes he hasn’t offended him with his previous comment.

  
“I know the type.  They won’t realize those were my footprints until we’re long gone,” John replies offhanded.  He takes in Sherlock’s face, the left eye is swollen and looking worse with each minute they stand there.  Sherlock’s nose is still bleeding, dripping onto a very expensive shirt.  John’s Da would tear his hide to pieces if he’d ruined a shirt like that.  John whips off his scarf, “Here, pinch your nose and bend forward.”  He shoves the scarf at Sherlock’s face, not giving Sherlock any option but to comply.  Sherlock bends over and watches out of the corner of his eye as John makes a tight, compact snowball.  John takes the dangling end of his scarf and wraps it around the snowball before pressing it to Sherlock’s injured eye.  Sherlock flinches at the pressure and cold but puts his other hand over the cold lump on his eye.

 

“I don’t need your help,” he mutters.

  
“No, you don’t,” John agrees.  “But I’m here, so let me help.  Besides, it’s getting dark and you’ll have a bit of trouble finding your way home with one eye swollen shut.” He shakes his head. “ You’re bleeding all over yourself, still.  Pinch it harder and bend over more.”  John pushes Sherlock so that he’s bent fully in half.  He leans against the bins, crossing his legs, and listens to Sherlock mutter something indistinguishable.  “You’re a walking target….uh...I, uh,  just realized, I don’t know your name.”

  
Sherlock pulls the scarf away so that John can hear what he has to say, “It’s Sherlock.  How do you figure I’ll be a walking target?” he asks.

  
“Oh ho, Sherlock!” John chuckles, “And here I thought you were more intelligent than the average idiot.  According to you, of course.” Sherlock glares but John just grins and winks at him.  Sherlock’s feelings go all fuzzy on him.  He’s not sure if he should be angry because John can wink and he can’t, or if he should smile because it’s obvious John’s aim isn’t to insult him, just a good-natured tease.  He thinks a moment and offers John a half-smile.  John beams back at him, blue eyes bright in the gloam.

  
“You’re a walking target for several reasons.  One, because you’re already injured.  Two, you’re obviously one of the posh ‘gits’ I always hear about, stuck in a not-so-great part of town.  Plus, you’re a kid.” Sherlock gives him his best furious stare.  “Don’t look at me like that,” John throws a handful of snow from the lid of the other bin at him.  “I could go down the list, but I’m sure you, oh genius, already know I’m right.”

  
Sherlock shrugs.  John is right of course, but he won’t acknowledge it.  He straightens up and checks his nose.  It appears to have stopped bleeding, but it’s still tender.  His eye, on the other hand, is still in need of ice.  The snowball has melted into slush, so John makes another one and wraps it in a dry, nonbloody part of the scarf.  Sherlock puts it back on his eye and sighs theatrically.  He may be 8, but his flair for dramatics rivals the actors on London’s stages.  “You’re not going to let me go home alone are you?”

  
“Nope,” John’s grin is bright and contagious.  Sherlock finds himself grinning back before he catches himself and quickly hides it behind the loose end of the scarf, letting it fall in front of his face.  He discovers it’s still wet and grimaces, gathering it up.  John hides his giggles behind a cough, trying to allow Sherlock some dignity, because obviously the younger boy needs to keep face a bit.  “So which way?” John asks when he’s done.

  
Sherlock attempts to roll his eyes, but it hurts so he huffs instead.  “This way.”  He walks and John falls into an easy pace next to him, hands shoved in his coat pockets in an attempt to keep warm.  They walk quietly for a time before the question that has been eating at John is spoken.

  
“So what did you do to him?”  John’s voice is gentle and knowing.  People like Billy don’t need much to make them snap, but Sherlock’s face had other bruises and he didn’t seem like one to run from a fight unless there was no other option.  Sherlock must have really done something to make Billy that angry.

  
Sherlock almost doesn’t tell John what had happened.  John seems like the sort to still believe in Santa -- or at least believe that others shouldn’t go around telling people he wasn’t real.  He finds himself not wanting to let John down.  An odd sensation so soon after meeting the blond, scruffy-haired boy.  But Sherlock isn’t one to hide the facts, so he tells John what he’d said and then Billy’s reaction.  When he finishes John stops under a streetlamp.  “Sherlock, you didn’t.”  The disappointment is clear on John’s face and in his voice.  Sherlock had been right.

  
“Sorry you helped me out now, aren’t you?” Sherlock feels that familiar sinking feeling in his gut.  The one that always appears when the loss of a new friend is inevitable.  But John surprises him again.

  
“No, I’m not sorry,” John shakes his head in disbelief that Sherlock would think such a thing.  “No one deserves to be beaten, ever.  Angry, yes. That was understandable, but he had no right to lay a hand on you, Sherlock.”  

  
“So you think it’s okay for parents to lie to their children?  Tell them about the fat man that comes down the chimney and leaves them presents if they’re good.  That’s a laugh.  Billy will still get his gifts from ‘Santa’, I can guarantee it.”  Sherlock replies bitterly.  He stalks off.  John hurries to catch up and again falls in step.  He’s silent for a moment before replying.

  
“No, it’s not okay for parents to lie to their children.  But everyone needs to believe in someone or something.  For kids, a lot of times, it’s Santa.  The fact that there is someone out there who cares enough about them to bring them something on Christmas Eve.  That someone thinks they’re special, important, and even out of the billions of children on the planet, he still listens to them.”  John pauses, thinking.

  
“Isn’t that what the whole ‘God’ thing is supposed to be?  That’s where the idea of Christmas comes from, after all,” Sherlock interjects.  

  
“You don’t believe in much do you?” John asks.  Sherlock shakes his head.  His parents and Mycroft had instilled in him at a very young age: Proof.  Proof.  Proof.  Myth and legend do not give way to proof.  John sighs.  “I suppose, for kids, it’s easier to believe in someone they can see and talk to, someone they can send letters to.  Santa is that person.  God isn’t someone they can visit once a year, like Santa.”

  
Sherlock ponders what John has said, “That actually makes a lot of sense.  After all Santa and God are both represented as old men with white beards and are supposedly benevolent, unless you’ve been bad.”  

  
John’s eyebrows shoot up at the comparison.  He’s never thought of it in those terms.

  
“Still,” John says, “everyone needs someone or something to believe in.  Even if it’s a fictional man who can make them happy because that man believes in them.   It gives them a reason to hope.  Hope that maybe they can be a better person, because someone else thinks they can.”  John is staring into the distance and Sherlock doesn’t think they’re talking about just any random kid anymore.  

  
He thinks back to what he’d seen when John was standing under the streetlight.  The things he’d missed at first glance in the dark.  There are fading bruises on John’s own cheek, ones he probably told his teachers he got playing rugby; more bruises -- like fingers -- circle his wrists hidden under his sleeves. The way he’d spoken of beatings and his quick defense of someone so obviously having been beaten. Sherlock realizes just why John is so passionate about needing someone to believe in.  Because John has no one at home that he can believe in.  At least, for the time being, Sherlock has Mycroft.

  
“Why do you let him hit you?” Sherlock whispers quietly, aware that he is treading into dangerous territory.  John stiffens and whirls around to face Sherlock.  Anger and shame are etched in every line of his face, his once bright eyes, now dark.

  
“How do you know that?” John spits out between clenched teeth.  He’s managed to keep it from everyone, his teachers, his friends, the neighbors.  Yet a boy he’s just met sees right through it all and goes straight to the very reason he is out wandering the streets tonight.  The thing -- person -- he’s been trying to avoid tonight.  Da’s mood was dark when he left the house that morning.  His dark moods never bode well for the Watson children, and it’s even worse if he’s been drinking.  Harry, thankfully, is out at an overnight with a friend, so he doesn't have to worry about her.    

  
“The bruises that are fading on your face.  I’ve been beaten up enough times that I know what a face looks like when you try to avoid the fists.  Your bruises.  You knew they were coming, you didn’t try to avoid them.  Why?  What possible reason could you have to _let_ him hit you?”  Sherlock is honestly confused by his sudden realization about why John’s bruises look the way they do.

  
John is taken aback.  His fingers, unbidden, brush across his cheek, recalling the fading bruise.  “I don’t ‘let’ him hit me,” John looks at Sherlock defiantly. “I _keep_ him from hitting Harry.  I’m older than she is, I know what to look for.  If he takes it out on me, he doesn’t have enough left in him, usually, for her.  Mum used to do the same for me, before she died.”  John doesn’t realize he’s said the last part until it’s left his lips.  Another secret is revealed to this young boy he’s known less than an evening.  His voice turns pleading.  “You can’t tell anyone.  Harry and I have to stay together.  If they find out, we’ll be taken away and probably separated.  We’re all the other has.  I can manage, I can keep us safe.  And Da isn’t that bad usually.”  The lie he always tells himself.  Maybe Sherlock will believe him.

  
Sherlock fingers the scarf in his hands and looks at John before he replies.  He could say one of the many things running through his head.  He could tell him about the other bruises he’s sure John is hiding.  He could call John an idiot for trying to be a martyr.  He could agree and then, when John goes home, he could get Mycroft involved.  But he doesn’t.  Instead, because John has managed to surprise him more than once tonight, he gives him this.  He simply says, “I won’t.”  He is gifted with a sigh of relief from John that is so profound the breath from his exhale ghosts over Sherlock’s face, a gentle touch of a thank you left unsaid.  It’s followed by the light returning to John’s eyes and his face falling back into that soft, warm, boyish look that Sherlock thinks he should always wear.  Those moments of pain and anguish during John’s revelation and pleading took a toll on his young face, and he looked more a young man than any 10-year-old should have to.

  
Sherlock marvels at the transformation.  How can a boy who has been and is going through so much worse than many of the people he passes every day continue to smile and carry on like there is good in the world?  Sherlock is sure most people would be withdrawn or bitter, or would lash out.  But John is the complete opposite.  A boy with an impish smile, a twinkle in his eye, a caring hand, protective even of someone he’s just met.  Sherlock firmly believes he has just met an enigma.  He smiles to himself.  Mycroft would be proud he’d remembered the word and found an excellent example of said word.  

  
They walk on, bantering back and forth about various things. Sherlock tells John how he climbed down the tree to avoid the boring party and John agrees he probably would have done the same thing, given the circumstances.  Sherlock finds it strangely easy to talk with John, telling him little tidbits he notices about the various people they pass, and he’s grateful that John doesn’t think his observations odd.  Although John does chide Sherlock occasionally for being rude.  Sherlock retorts that he is merely stating the obvious.  He catches John rolling his eyes several times, but never in a derogatory fashion.  More of a sign of acceptance, that this is who Sherlock is.

  
John finds the younger boy fascinating.  His sharp tongue and quick wit are unique.  He is animated as he talks, his curls bobbing in his excitement, his one good eye taking in enough for the injured one.  He knows John’s darkest secret and, yet, he doesn’t look at him with pity or like he’s broken.   He hopes that this budding friendship can continue beyond tonight.  It would be nice to have someone he didn’t have to lie to about what’s going on at home.  His smile widens and Sherlock looks at him askance.  “What did I say this time?” the boy asks defensively.

  
“Nothing.  I’m just thinking is all,” John replies .  He bumps Sherlock’s shoulder and laughs.  Sherlock returns the favor and so it goes, back and forth, giggles finding their way in between playful shoves.  It is in this manner they find themselves on Sherlock’s street.  John stops and stares.  Sherlock hangs his head, time having passed much quicker than he’d realized.  His house is the first one, large and omnipresent.   

 

“Well, here we are.”  Sherlock scuffs his toe in the snow, not yet wanting for this comradery to end and also afraid of what John will think of him now.  John had said he was a “posh git”; now John knows just how right he was.

  
John stared at the nameplate on the wall next to the gate.  “Holmes,” he said breathlessly.  “You’re a Holmes!  My Da HATES your’s.  He can’t stand the way he practices politics.”

  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “I’m not fond of the politics side of my family, either.  I’d rather do something fun.”

  
“Like leap from a house into a tree to avoid people who want you to be a miniature adult instead of a child?” John comprehends Sherlock’s reluctance to go to the party more now.  He stares at the aforementioned tree and house.  That would have been quite a leap.

  
“Exactly,” Sherlock’s eyes light up at John’s understanding, “I’d rather be an adult who still knows how to be a child, than what passes for an adult at those parties.”  He looks at John’s scarf, still in his hand.  It’s covered in blood and soaking wet from the melted snow.  He can’t give it back to John like this.  He can only imagine what would happen if John’s Da found the scarf in this state.  

  
“Wait here,” he says.  John nods his head, blue eyes questioning, but stays.  Sherlock dashes around and into the mudroom at the back of the house.  When he returns, he shoves something into John’s hands.  It’s soft and warm, but lightweight.  John looks down to find an oversized scarf.  It’s the color of twilight, a deep, dusky blue.  Nothing at all like his ordinary green, heavy wool scarf.   He looks back up at Sherlock, his eyes wide with shock.

  
“Take it.” Sherlock says awkwardly, “You’ve been rubbing your neck off and on the whole way.  It’ll keep you warm.  Hide that so your Da doesn’t take it.  It’s designed to fold up small like a handkerchief, so it doesn’t take up much room. I’ll get your’s cleaned and I can get it back to you tomorrow. I know a few tricks.  Try not to let your Da know it’s missing, okay?”  Concern laces Sherlock’s voice.  John can’t speak.  This isn’t pity or special treatment, he knows.  This is a friend who knows what he is going home to.  He gulps in cold air, trying to get ahold of himself, and nods.

  
“I’ll meet you tomorrow after school at the bins to give you back your scarf, clean.  Then you won’t have to lie or worry about it.”  Sherlock smiles hopefully.  John returns the smile and, before he can stop himself, pulls Sherlock into a hug.

  
“Thank you,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock is unused to physical affection and he hesitates before returning the hug.  It would be annoying from anyone else, but he finds the affection from John not unwelcome.  They stand like that for a few seconds before Sherlock slowly pulls away, aware that his brother probably knows by now that he was in the house a few minutes earlier.  

  
“What will your parents say about your face?” John realizes he should have asked earlier, but somehow the conversation never made it to that question.

  
“This isn’t the first time they’ve seen my face like this: it’ll only be a question of what I did this time.  Mycroft will scold me.  Beyond that, nothing will be said.”  Sherlock shrugs.  His parents only care about their reputation and Mycroft following in Father’s footsteps.  “I’ll be okay.”  Sherlock waves as he walks back through the gates.  John raises a hand and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  
The next afternoon finds Sherlock rushing to the bins, eager to give his new friend back his scarf.  He had meticulously cleaned it the night before after Mycroft’s lecture about not giving his opinions where they weren’t wanted.  Really, Mycroft was becoming tedious, but at least he showed he cared.  Sherlock rolls his eyes -- less painful than they were the night before -- at the memory.  He rounds the corner and sees John’s shivering form by the bins.  His shoulders are hunched against the cold, but Sherlock catches a glimpse of blue around the boy’s neck above his coat.  “John!” he shouts and the other boy turns around.  Sherlock skids to a halt in shock, almost slipping on the icy sidewalk.

  
John’s face is crestfallen.  His shoulders weren’t hunched against the wind, but in defeat.  Sherlock looks for any evidence of a beating but sees none, so there must be something else John is upset about.  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  
“Da is sending me and Harry off to live with my Mum’s folks in Northumberland.  He says he can’t deal with us anymore and it’s better for them to have us than to let some social services person from the government take his kids.”  John huffs angrily.  

  
That sinking sensation in Sherlock’s gut from yesterday returns.  “That’s a good thing though, right? He won’t be able to beat you or your sister anymore,” Sherlock says cooly.  He gathers himself up, pulling on his full eight years of experience of being hurt time and again.  John watches as Sherlock’s face changes.  The light goes out of those amazing pale blue eyes and a hardness overtakes Sherlock’s features.  Ironically, he looks very much like the miniature adult his parents want him to be.

  
John sighs, “Yes, it’s good in that sense.  But, one, he doesn’t want his own children.  Can you imagine how that makes me feel?  Actually,” he says as he watches Sherlock’s jaw harden, “I think you do know.  Secondly,” he stops himself.  Why would Sherlock care?  Why would he care what this plain boy has to say about leaving him behind?  John has a chance to escape his Da, to keep Harry safe.  He should just go.  Try and forget the boy who made him feel like he actually had a reason to believe that he could be more than just the protective big brother.  John shakes his head.  “You know what? Never mind.”  John sighs and begins to unwind the scarf.

  
Sherlock watches the emotions play over John’s face.  There’s something he’s not saying.  The way his eyes dart back and forth between the two of them.  Sherlock has watched that body language from people around him enough in his life already to know, it’s something to do with him.  He can’t let this go.  He has to know.  Know for sure that he’s right.  Know that John doesn’t want to be his friend.  Because no one can be his friend.  He’s too different.  Too much of a freak, a weirdo.  “Just say it, John.  Get it over with.” Sherlock says his voice shaking.

  
John looks up from the scarf he’s been twisting in his hands.  The one he held onto throughout the night, hidden from his Da. The one he clenched in his pocket all day, some sort of comfort after Da’s outburst that morning.  And he remembers those looks of defiance from Sherlock the night before, the appreciative glances he’d cast at John all evening, and what Sherlock had said about his parents. And he decides.  He squares his shoulders and looks Sherlock in the eyes, hoping to bring back the boy who had left so suddenly.

 

“Secondly,” John continues, “I know this sounds odd, but I think I need to say it and you need to hear it.  Secondly, I was really hoping that we could be friends.  You.  You’re amazing.  You’re smart and I can’t believe that you see so much that so many people miss.  You looked at me and saw what no one else has and you didn’t pity me.  You treat me like John Watson, not like someone who is broken.  I don’t need fixing.  I need a real friend.  Someone I can trust.  Not just someone can I hang out or joke around with.  I have plenty of those.  But none of them really knows me, Sherlock.  You know more about me from one night than those same kids I’ve known for years.”  He sighs.  Sherlock’s face is opening back up but it is still guarded.  John continues, knowing the next part is the hardest to explain.  “And there’s something about you that I can’t put my finger on, but something about you screams ‘special’ at me.  I tried to figure it out last night.  But the conclusion I came to is, I could spend years trying to and never reach a satisfactory answer.  And I wanted that chance.  That’s the ‘secondly’.  Me losing someone I thought I might be able to call a real best friend.”  He looks away, unable to keep eye contact any longer, and thrusts out his hand holding the scarf.  “Here.  Thank you for letting me borrow this.”

  
Sherlock can’t believe what he’s hearing.  John cares and wants to be his friend.  He wanted to have a chance to get to know Sherlock, discover what makes him so... _special_ was the word he’d used.  And one of the reasons John is so upset about going to live with his mother’s family is he’s having to leave Sherlock behind.  Sherlock had never expected to cause those sorts of emotions in someone and he’s unsure of what he can do to make John feel better, but he tries.

  
“Keep it,” he says softly.  “Don’t lose it, don’t let anyone take it.”  John looks up swiftly.  Sherlock continues, “ I’m sure we’ll see each other again some day.  I … I would have liked that chance, too.  No one has ever wanted to be my friend.  Not really.  I usually drive other kids away.  I’m strange, I’m different.  I don’t know when NOT to say things.  I think them and they just spill out.  You saw that last night and you didn’t turn away.  You told me when what I said wasn’t nice, but you still let me be me.  I would have liked the chance for the two of us to be able to be ourselves with each other.  Keep the scarf and think of me.  My father would laugh at the sentiment, but I think that sometimes, as you said last night about believing, sentiment is needed.  Don’t you?”  Sherlock pauses for breath, and John nods.  “Here’s your scarf back.  I got all the stains out.”  John opens his mouth, but Sherlock stops him.  “Don’t tell me to keep it.  Your Da will ask after it, I’m sure.”   John takes the scarf and they stand there awkwardly for a moment.  Sherlock finally asks, “When are you leaving?”

 

“He’s packing us up this evening.  We’re on the train out tomorrow.  I actually should get back before he loses it with Harry.”  John fingers the blue scarf gingerly before folding it back to fit in his pocket.  He’s unexpectedly wrapped in an embrace as Sherlock launches himself at John for a second and last hug.  John wisely says nothing about the wetness he feels on his cheek from Sherlock’s tears.  Unoticed, he quietly slips his scarf into Sherlock's coat pocket.

  
“You are amazing and you are going to change the world with that brain of yours, I just know it,” John says as they part, both boys wiping at their faces.

  
“And you will always be strong.  I don’t doubt that you will somehow change the lives of the people you touch for the better.”  Sherlock blurts out, unexpectedly poetic and feeling like he should say something meaningful, as well.

  
They say their goodbyes and each boy walks home with heavy steps and, a sense of tugging in their chests, as if they are headed in the wrong directions.  

 

                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
It would be years before the two would meet again.  John follows his friend Mike through the doors of a lab in St. Barts, leaning heavily on a metal cane.  Time and war have aged John Watson, but there is still a faint glimmer in his eyes, and if his smile is somewhat tight, there remains an echo of the brightness it once held.  He looks around as they walk, making an offhand comment about how it’s different from his time there.  His eyes are then drawn to a tall man with a mop of dark curls that bob as he talks over his microscope.  The voice is low, but the cadence is somehow familiar.  It’s not until he raises his head and those ice blue eyes -- that John has never forgotten -- lock with his that John recognizes the man in front of him.  He is speechless for a moment as those eyes wander over John’s form, taking everything in, right down to the small blue patch of fabric sticking out of John’s pocket.  Then those startlingly fae eyes widen in recognition, as well.  Mike begins to make the introductions but is interrupted before he can.

  
“Hello, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s voice flows over his skin.  A ghost of an unsaid thank you from long ago floats to the surface of Sherlock’s memory and the mask Mike Stamford is so used to seeing on Sherlock’s face is gone.  His ethereal face takes on a younger visage as John’s voice soothes an ache that never quite went away.  

 

“Hello, John Watson.” Sherlock’s voice has deepened more than John would have expected as it reverberates over and through him, and the tugging John has felt in his chest for so long loosens it’s hold.  John smiles and the weariness falls away, leaving an echo of the boyish grin he’d worn that night so long ago.

  
Mike looks back and forth between the two men and silently excuses himself.  He’ll get his answers later.

  
Sherlock walks over to John and pulls the scarf out of John’s pocket.  It’s worn, slightly faded, but undeniably _the_ scarf.  “You kept it?” Sherlock asks, almost in disbelief.  He fingers it almost reverently.  John swallows a bit nervously.  

  
“Yeah.  I’m sure you think it’s ridiculous.  A grown man hanging onto something like that.  But, as you said,” John looks up to find Sherlock’s gaze intent on him.  He clears his throat and continues, “As you said that day, sentiment.  I never forgot you, Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock is taken aback. The fact that John had recognized him after all this time was surprising enough.  But John had kept his scarf and remembered him.  The scarf is obviously a source of comfort to John.  He keeps it close.  There are places where the fabric is worn thin from being touched.  Sherlock walks over to his long, dark coat hanging on the door.  John notices a similar blue scarf hanging from the hook as well, but Sherlock reaches into one of the pockets and pulls out a small square of fabric.  It’s a dull shade of green wool, but John doesn’t need Sherlock to tell him what it is.  “I never forgot you either.  The boy who believed in me.”  Sherlock stares down at the fabric for a moment before looking back up, his eyes somewhat haunted by the memory.

  
The two men stare at each other for an age that is really mere seconds before John breaks the silence.  “I hear you’re looking for a flatshare.”  He grins at Sherlock, already knowing the answer to the unspoken question.

  
“And so, it seems, are you.”  Sherlock flashes a rare, true smile.  John has no way of knowing how rare it is these days, but he basks in its glow.   Sherlock throws on his own scarf and coat.  “Shall we?”

  
“Lead on.”  John doesn’t realize he barely leans on his cane as he follows Sherlock down the halls of St. Barts.

 

                                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
They had last seen each other as children, but both men would be foolish to try to deny that they had wondered about the man the other had become.  What would have happened if they had been able to stay friends?  Now they have their chance to find out.  And, perhaps, they will find out they were meant to be so much more than just friends.  It’s time to find out what makes Sherlock Holmes and John Watson so special to each other.  

 

Somewhere the Fates smile and weave two threads together.

**Author's Note:**

> Johnlock goggles are fully intended here. Please feel free to ship or not as you see fit though.


End file.
